You'll Like It Here (Everybody Does) (2 page)

Other times I wake up crying. David groans and throws a pillow over his head, but Mom holds me while Gramps says comforting things.

“There's nobody out there,” he says. “Nobody's going to get our Meggie. We're here to take care of you.”

Hush, my darling, don't fear, my darling

The lion sleeps tonight
.

Then I go to sleep again under the stars that shine over the North Carolina countryside, far away from the shores of California, where a madman wanted to hurt me.

On the last day of school, Mom, Gramps, David, and I sit around the table in our shabby-chic kitchen.

“Where do we want to go this summer?” is the question put to us by Mom.

It's a favorite ritual—the choosing of the next family adventure. We usually pick some awesome natural place in the United States. We've seen the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, the giant redwoods of California, and more. But it doesn't have to be a famous touristy place. We are just as thrilled with simple things, and sharing our memories afterward is almost as good as the event itself.

“Remember the wheat fields of Nebraska?” one of us says.

“Remember the wild horses of Chincoteague?” says another.

“Yeah,” we all murmur as we remember together.

“And how can we ever forget the Great Smoky Mountains?” Gramps adds. “They remind me of other mountains I saw when I was a boy. I've tried to paint them several times, but I'm never entirely satisfied with the result. I can't seem to find the blue that's in my head—in the mind's eye of my memory.”

“Anyhow …” Mom jolts us back to the present. “Where to this summer?”

“Niagara Falls!” The words burst out of Gramps, like he's been holding them in forever. Nobody has a better suggestion, so we agree on Niagara. We begin planning immediately—when to leave, what to take, what to wear.

On Saturday Mom takes me and David into town with her. She has errands to run, and she suggests that David and I walk to the video store while she's in the supermarket. She wants a travel video about Niagara Falls.

“Rent something fun too!” Mom calls as we leave her in the parking lot.

I'm in high spirits as we walk down the street. There's a hint of lilacs on the air. A brilliant sun dances on display windows. Some of the townspeople speak to us. A large floppy-eared dog grins at us.

“Meggie! David!”

We turn to see old Mr. Bleep sitting on a bench across the street in front of the post office. Kids started calling him Mr. Bleep because his real name sounds like a bad word that's off-limits to us. Over time, the adults have picked up the nickname too.

We like Mr. Bleep. You might call him our local character. He hangs around town and strikes up conversations
with anybody who will talk to him. A few years back he suffered a stroke, which left him with a weird vision problem—he sees dead people, or so he claims.

“Come sit,” he invites us, patting the bench beside him.

“For a minute?” I ask David.

“Why not?”

We cross the street and sit on the bench beside Mr. Bleep.

“Such a day for aliens!” he says in his friendly way, before we can ask how he is.

Oh, no. Aliens again? My high spirits take a nosedive.

“Aliens?” David says, and glances at me. “What about them?”

“One of my little friends, Kitty Singer—you know Kitty, don't you, Meggie?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, a few minutes ago she was talking to me about the aliens.”

I try to laugh. “That Kitty! And did she tell you how they suck your soul out through your big toe?”

But Mr. Bleep does not laugh. He nods slowly and looks toward the sky.

“I don't know how they do it,” he says in all seriousness. “But they do steal souls. They want to take over the earth. It's no laughing matter.”

“Don't you think that's a bit far-fetched?” David teases Mr. Bleep. “People from outer space?”

“Not far-fetched at all,” Mr. Bleep responds.

All three of us turn our eyes to the sky.

Mr. Bleep adjusts his glasses. “Did I ever tell y'all about my vision problem?”

We nod.

“It's not that I can't see,” he insists. “I can see as good as I did before the stroke—just about, anyhow—but now I can also see spots everywhere, and glare, and clouds floating about the edges.” He moves his hand around his head as he speaks.

“That must be aggravating,” I say.

“It is, child. It's definitely aggravating. That's the word, all right.”

“Do you still see ghosts, Mr. Bleep?” David asks.

“Yeah, I saw my dear mom and dad only yesterday, and them dead these many years. But that ain't all,” he adds.

“What do you mean?” David says.

“Well, most folks laugh at me, but I'm used to it by now,” Mr. Bleep says sadly, and I understand that he really is not used to it at all. “Nobody believes me. They think I'm just a senile old man. Maybe I am.”

“We'll believe you, Mr. Bleep,” David says.

“Just lately I've been seeing aliens,” Mr. Bleep goes on. “I don't see them all the time, and they don't talk to me or nothing like that. They're just there.”

“But not really there?” I say hopefully, twisting my hands nervously.

Mr. Bleep shrugs. “Who knows? I've read up on strokes and how they sometimes affect your eyesight. It's the brain, see, and not the eyes, that's damaged. If they
could find a way to fix the brain after a stroke, it would take care of the vision problem. Anyhow, I started seeing these aliens in the clouds floating around in my field of vision.”

“What do they look like?” David asks.

“Some of them are tall and skinny with big liquid slanting eyes. Others look just like you and me.”

If some of the aliens look like us, then how can he be sure they
are
aliens? I start to ask Mr. Bleep that question, but something is happening to the conduit between my brain and my vocal cords, and I suddenly find myself babbling insanely in a screechy high-pitched voice.

For as long as I can remember, I've had to put up with this thing. It happens most often when I'm overanxious. You don't want to know how folks look at me when I flip out this way—like I'm a real flake. At one time David had the same disorder, but being the perfect kid he is, he outgrew it.

One time I heard a teacher referring to me as “the girl with Tourette's.” Another time a neighbor called it “the most abnormal stutter” she'd ever heard. That made my face burn, but I knew this was not Tourette's and not a stutter. It was something else entirely. The middle school principal recommended therapy for my “speech defect,” but Mom would have none of it.

“There's nothing wrong with her,” Mom told him. “It's just a nervous tic that runs in our family. I'll work with her myself.”

She did that very thing, and in time I learned to control my outbursts to some degree, but on this day I find
myself losing it again. I know all the talk about aliens has something to do with it.

David yanks my arm hard and practically yells, “We gotta go!”

Finally I clap my free hand over my runaway mouth and end the tirade. David pulls me to my feet. Mr. Bleep has struggled to a standing position also, and now gapes at me.

“What kind of gibberish was that?” he cries, but David is dragging me away.

As we leave, I see that Mr. Bleep's pale knobby hands have started to flutter.

We hurry across the street, and David whispers to me, “We can't take you anywhere, can we?”

“Let go of me!” With one mighty jerk, I manage to wrench myself free of him.

David takes off like he's going to put out a fire, and I have to run to keep up with him. At the video store he acts like I'm some stray he can't shake. I find a documentary about Niagara, and we each choose one movie for fun. My pick is
Marley & Me
. I love any movie or book about dogs. Mom and Gramps have promised me a golden retriever puppy for my birthday this summer.

Mr. Alvarez, who manages the video store, rings up our selections and tosses a box of microwave popcorn into the plastic bag along with the videos. “Enjoy a treat with your movies tonight.”

“Sorry to decline,” David says as he removes the popcorn, “but Mom didn't give us permission.”

Mr. Alvarez throws back his head and laughs. “ ‘Sorry
to decline'?” he mocks David. “Leave it to this kid to use ten-dollar words, and to always mind Mom. The other young'uns around here just grab the grub and run.”

With a tinge of satisfaction, I watch David's face go red. He doesn't know what to say. It's not the first time somebody has commented that his way of speaking is different. That's what he gets for being so proper. I know he can talk ordinary and even use slang when he wants to, so why doesn't he? Because he likes to put on airs.

“But it's free, child,” Mr. Alvarez insists, and shoves the popcorn toward us again. “I'm giving a box to all my best customers today. Take it, and enjoy!”

David stands there thinking for a moment, then says in a mock Southern drawl, “Well, by cracky, in that case, my good feller, much obliged, much obliged!”

And in spite of being annoyed with David, I have to admit he does have a gift for impersonations. I would never tell him how good he is at it. Now his performance makes Mr. Alvarez laugh again. At the same time, we hear a siren from the street. Mr. Alvarez follows us out the door to see what's going on. Walking back the way we came, David and I see that an ambulance is parked in front of the post office across the street. Along with everyone else, we watch as someone on a stretcher is lifted into the rear of the vehicle.

Mr. O'Reilley, who delivers our mail, crosses the street and walks toward us.

“Who is it?” David calls to him.

The mailman glances behind him. “You mean on the
stretcher? It's Mr. Bleep, poor old guy. I'm no doctor, but it looks to me like he's had another stroke.”

David and I gape at each other in astonishment.

“W-we were just talking to him,” David sputters. “He seemed fine.”

Mr. O'Reilley lays a sympathetic hand on David's shoulder.

“Sometimes these things come without warning, my lad. I'm sorry.”

Then Mr. O'Reilley pats me on the head and moves on to continue with his deliveries. We watch the ambulance drive away with Mr. Bleep, before walking back to the parking lot to meet Mom. On the way home, we tell her all that happened.

The next day David and I are playing basketball in the backyard when the county sheriff pulls his official car into our driveway, emerges in his spiffy blue uniform, and tips his hat to us. Sheriff DuBois is a pleasant-enough man, I suppose, but the sight of a uniformed officer always brings that echo back to me.

He goes to the back door and knocks. Mom, who is in the kitchen preparing lunch, invites him in. David and I drop the ball and go inside to see what's going on, and Gramps comes up from his workshop in the basement, where he's been tinkering.

Mom motions the sheriff toward the living room. “Will you sit with us?”

“Naw,” the sheriff says as he props one foot on the bottom rung of a kitchen chair and removes his sunglasses.
“I won't keep you long. I want to ask your children some questions.”

“David and Meggie?” Mom says, obviously surprised. She gestures for us to stand by her. “What about?”

David and I walk over to stand beside Mom.

“Well, I was informed that they were seen talking to Mr. Bleep yesterday right before he had a stroke.” The sheriff looks at us. “Is that right, kids?”

“Yes,” David responds. “We were talking to Mr. Bleep before we went to the video store, and when we came out again, the ambulance was there.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Bleep himself is not able to answer any questions right now,” the sheriff says. “It seems he's had another stroke, but he may recover. In the meantime, maybe you can help me out. Can you tell me what you talked about?”

“Aliens,” I blurt out. Mom lays a warm hand on my arm.

“What about aliens?” the sheriff inquires.

David and I by turns recount as much as we can remember of our conversation with Mr. Bleep, including his descriptions of the aliens.

“Hmmmm” is all the sheriff has to say as he scratches his head.

“Why do you need to know this, Sheriff DuBois?” Gramps asks.

“Just trying to put the puzzle together,” the sheriff responds. “Mrs. Raskin told me she saw these kids talking to Mr. Bleep, and according to her, when they left him
and crossed the street, Mrs. Raskin walked over to speak to him herself. When she got to where he was, she found Mr. Bleep to be in an agitated state. He was flailing his arms around and mumbling about alien kids. Then the stroke hit him. The Romano sisters said they saw it all from the post office window, and that it looked like Mr. Bleep was scared nearly to death.”

I
don't
want to hear this. Because I know. I know it was my speech problem that scared poor Mr. Bleep. It may have caused his stroke. That makes me feel so bad. And did he think …? Yes, he thought … He thought … Was he calling me and David
alien
kids?

“Well, it appears to me that the old man was having a senior moment,” Gramps says.

“Yeah, it looks that way, but just 'cause he's old don't mean he's crazy.”

“What do you mean?” Mom asks.

“I mean we've had these reports circulating for some months now, from many different sources, and a great flurry of them just lately.”

“What reports?” Gramps says.

“Well, people say they've been seeing things, and they're scared.”

“What things?” Gramps persists.

“Oh, you know, they're just your average alien sightings. I reckon people get on these kicks. Haven't you heard the UFO rumors?”